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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994388">Let Us Waltz For The Dead</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash24601/pseuds/FandomTrash24601'>FandomTrash24601</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Heavy Angst, Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt No Comfort, I'm not going to lie this is brutal, I've made two of my friends cry before I even posted this, Jaskier is a fucking poetic sap, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mages, Original Character Death(s), POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, This hurt me to write, and yes I know he's a literal poet, but listen, he's a poetic sap, please grab a tissue if you're easily moved to tears</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:09:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,333</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994388</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash24601/pseuds/FandomTrash24601</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's cold and dark and drizzling.</p>
<p>Title from The Amazing Devil's "Farewell Wanderlust"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>137</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Let Us Waltz For The Dead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s cold and dark and drizzling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier had wrinkled his pretty nose at the weather but also, as per usual, refused to be left behind. So instead of being warm in a tavern, earning coin, Jaskier is trudging through the woods behind Geralt and Roach as he complains about the weather. The moisture in the air is ruining his clothing, and the muddy soil has almost stolen his shoes five times now, and his lute’s going to be destroyed even though it’s wrapped in oilskin and being carried by Roach— he’s learned, over the long years they’ve traveled together, not to sing or play as they approach the targets of hunts; drawing unnecessary attention to themselves isn’t exactly smart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the age of fifty-two, it’s harder for Jaskier to make lucky escapes. While he’s in better shape than almost all other humans his age due to decades of following a Witcher around, he’s not as fast, nimble, or generally resilient as he used to be. When he’s knocked down, it takes longer for him to get up. When they sleep on the ground, it takes Jaskier longer to shake the cricks from his bones. He’s even got gray hair, which he used to bemoan but now has grown to flaunt. He calls himself a “silver fox,” whatever that means.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” Geralt finally says. His sense of smell is muffled by the damp, but he doesn’t need it to see the light of a fire flickering far in the distance. All the potential kindling in the woods is wet, though, so the fire must be magically lit. There’s the mage they came to dispatch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got it, yeah, quieting down now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They pause about twenty yards from the edge of the clearing. Geralt loops Roach’s reins around a tree branch before he turns to Jaskier. The dampness has had the fortunate effect of lessening the sounds of their approach, giving Geralt a little extra advantage.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay here,” Geralt whispers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Will do,” Jaskier whispers. He offers a bright smile, only easily visible because of Geralt’s enhanced senses. If he were prone to poetics he might say that Jaskier’s smiles are their own source of light, but he’s not, so he doesn’t. “Don’t die.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t yet,” Geralt replies. “But seriously. Stay here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seriously,” Jaskier replies with just a hint of mocking in his voice, “don’t die.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes Geralt’s face between his palms and presses a slow, deep kiss to his lips. Geralt closes his eyes into the kiss and lets Jaskier’s calming, familiar smell wash across him. Chamomile and lavender, lute oil and his own natural scent. It’s quite possibly Geralt’s favorite smell in the entire world, even better than the smell of hearty stew above a fire or fresh bread.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t,” Geralt says when they separate. It’s not a promise; it can’t be, but Geralt has long since given in to Jaskier’s wishes. He’d call it silly if he didn’t understand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt creeps slowly through the woods, taking careful steps towards the clearing and the fire. When he gets close enough, he identifies the outline of a figure sat by the fire. They haven’t even put up a glamor, which is unusual. Geralt draws his steel sword and takes a step into the clearing behind the figure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Witcher,” they say. They don’t sound surprised, just annoyed and resigned to conflict.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You could’ve left,” Geralt tells him. “If you were expecting me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not expecting, really. Just hoping you weren’t coming.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stand from their seated  position. The fire behind them messes with his vision, and even with enhanced eyesight he can’t make their face out well in the darkness. If he were fully human, he’d be entirely unable to see their face. The long cloak they wear hides their body and it leaves Geralt uncertain as to how many weapons they have on them, if any.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been killing hunters. How could you not expect a Witcher to come after you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What would you have preferred I do, then?” the mage demands scornfully. Their voice is low enough that Geralt thinks he can positively identify them as male. “What would the White Wolf want me to have done? I didn’t come here to meddle with men— you would have known if I had. I just wanted to exist without conflict, but the hunters stumbled upon me and just kept coming back, and they were slaughtering the lovely creatures of this wood for sport. I had to punish them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You could’ve done it without killing them,” Geralt offers. “You could enchant the woods so that all those who enter with poor intentions fall into a state of confusion and soon wander back out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A Witcher would still be summoned,” the mage scoffs. “You know this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do,” Geralt admits. “But if you hadn’t killed, the village may have been content with my word. They demand your head.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My head.” The mage scoffs. Something in his voice sparks warning in the back of Geralt’s mind. “Of course they want my head.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt barely manages to dive out of the way of a spell, a burst of malicious chaos. He hits the ground and rolls, leaping easily back to his feet. A quick blast of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aard </span>
  </em>
  <span>sends the mage flying backwards, where he lands in the fire. It wasn’t Geralt’s intention, but he’s not complaining. The time it takes the mage to scramble out of the fire with sharp, keening cries and then put himself out is enough for Geralt to cross the space between them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The mage drops to the ground from his hands and knees when Geralt swings, so instead of decapitating him he leaves a long, deep cut across the mage’s back. His scream, so much like that of a human, is disconcerting. It doesn’t stop Geralt, though; he’s a Witcher who’s spent decades honing his skills until he’s a perfect killing machine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bastard,” the mage wheezes as he flops onto his burned and bloodied back, hands up in preparation to cast a spell. He can see the mage now, really see him in the light of the fire. The orange firelight splaying across his face does nothing to flatter his orange hair, the curls of which bounce and shine as if newly washed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt casts </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quen </span>
  </em>
  <span>and stabs the mage through the chest. His body jerks and he lets out an ugly, gasping shout before falling limp. For several moments more his chest seizes as blood spills from his mouth, but at last the life fades from his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An agonized, guttural shriek sounds from somewhere behind him. Geralt whirls around, startled. He’d only sensed the one mage, the damn weather getting in the way of some of his senses. But there’s another mage, or at the very least another man. His face is pale with grief, contorted into something truly dreadful, but that’s not what Geralt’s concerned about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, Geralt is concerned about— fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrified </span>
  </em>
  <span>by— the bard currently held captive by the grieving man. Jaskier’s eyes are wide, his waxy face perfectly illuminated by the fire between them. The captor shifts his grip on the dagger he’s holding very close to Jaskier’s throat and Geralt can only watch Jaskier’s breathing rate increase. He feels… helpless. Fuck, how he hates feeling helpless!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought I told you to stay with Roach,” is all he can think to rasp. His voice isn’t loud, but it carries far enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did,” Jaskier says, and swallows hard. “They, uh, appeared behind me. Just as you and the other fellow started your little fight. I would’ve shouted for help but you were occupied and they stuck a dagger to my throat quite immediately.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You killed him,” Jaskier’s captor says, finally regaining their voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I may not have had to if he hadn’t killed innocent men.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Innocent,” the captor hisses, baring their teeth. Their eyes are glazed by madness. “There are no innocents. You are not innocent, and neither is your little </span>
  <em>
    <span>companion.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He didn’t come here to fight.” Geralt tries to keep his voice slow and even, more terrified for Jaskier’s life than he can ever remember being. If incited, there’s nothing to stop the captor from killing Jaskier before Geralt can do anything. It would only take half a moment— less time than it would take Geralt to run around the fire, less time than it would take Geralt to cast </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aard.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Neither did we!” Jaskier’s captor shrieks. He begins to mutter under his voice, quiet words that don’t quite float across the fire. It takes too long for Geralt to realize it’s a curse, and by the time he lifts his arm to cast </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quen </span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s too late and he’s—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>—standing in his childhood home. It’s a fair summer day, bright and hot, and he can hear his mother humming outside as she strings laundry up to dry. Geralt’s too-slow heart is pounding in his chest. His mouth has gone dry and tastes rancid with fear, and Geralt spins around in circles looking to find any hint of the second mage.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Where are you, you bastard!” he shouts. There’s no sign of him in the small one-room cottage and no place for the mage to hide. There’s not a hint of something amiss except for the fact that everything’s amiss.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m right here,</span>
  <em>
    <span> the mage chuckles. There’s a soul-deep instability ringing in the mage’s voice like a thousand broken bells.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Very faintly, Geralt hears his name. It sounds like a half-imagined whisper, but Geralt would know that voice across a thousand lifetimes and a million endless oceans.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Geralt, dear?” his mother asks, stepping into the doorframe. She looks as lovely as she does in all his misremembered childhood memories, warm and soft and loving. Her hair is silky, her face smooth and full of life. Her eyes, even, hold the exact warmth of a freshly-baked cake. “What’s the matter?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You can’t hide,” Geralt snarls. He stalks towards the door, shoves the illusion of his mother aside and stomps into the bright grass outside.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Except he steps into a tavern, still covered in kikimora guts, and comes face to face with none other than Renfri. Her arms are crossed over her chest as if she’s defensive, but her living face is full of boyish charm and her mouth is quirked into a smile. Geralt aches to reach out and touch her hair, her face, to apologize for what he hasn’t yet done and can’t take back. But she isn’t real. He watches a cut open up on her neck, small but growing larger and bloodier.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Do you want to find him?” she whispers. “Do you really want to find him?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Her eyes are too bright and her teeth too sharp. Geralt watches the blood run in rivulets down her neck and across her chest, remembers how slick it had been on his hands. How it had turned sticky, later, and he’d washed it off in the stream near where they’d lain just the night before. How he scrubbed his fingertips raw trying to get it out from under his nails, remembering just how much like him she had looked when she told him that he’d need silver to kill her.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Renfri collapses like a dropped puppet, still smiling. The occupants of the tavern, all with the same face, stand as one and move to surround her body. They press forward, jeering at him, walking him slowly backwards until he walks right out the tavern door.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The air around him is saturated, artificial. It’s too brightly colored when he’s surrounded by the ordinary dirt and rocks of an all-too-familiar mountain. He closes his eyes, sword clenched tightly in his shaking hand. If he can locate where the mage’s hovering presence is lurking, if he can draw him into a solid state, perhaps he can kill him and shatter this charade.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why do you assume he would appear as himself?” Borch asks.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt turns to look at him, to </span>
  </em>
  <span>really </span>
  <em>
    <span>look at him. He looks just the same, with his gray visage and wise old eyes. But Téa and Véa stand in the background, and there’s something too bright in Téa’s eyes. The moment he sees it, the three of them break into wide, crazed grins.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It takes too long for Geralt to launch himself at the figure that looks like Téa but is really the mage, and Borch manages not only to stop him but to topple him right off of a sheer cliff. Geralt falls and falls and falls until he’s not falling anymore, but standing at the edge of a river with an amphora in his hands.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You want me?” not-Jaskier taunts.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt doesn’t know how he didn’t realize the very first time around that the brightness was the mage. He’d had his hands on the illusion that looked like Visenna, for fuck’s sake! But now he’s left to chase an illusion of Jaskier through the woods, to </span>
  </em>
  <span>injure </span>
  <em>
    <span>an illusion of Jaskier, and the thought of hurting even an illusion is enough to make Geralt feel sick. He can only hope that just tackling the mage will work.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He tosses the amphora aside and takes off after not-Jaskier with a snarl. If there was any doubt that not-Jaskier wasn’t the mage, it’s gone now. The distance between them is only increasing, Jaskier’s form vanishing into the distance. Geralt swears he sees the ground between them stretching out.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Eventually a thought enters Geralt’s mind: </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’s trying to tire you out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>So he stops running and waits for the scenery around him to dissolve.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When it does, melting like butter over flame, he’s standing in Stregobor’s self-described ‘prison’ in Blaviken. The sun is just as sweet and yellow as he remembers, and Stregobor’s face is just as insufferable. He stands in the middle of the lush courtyard, although all the naked ladies are gone. His eyes are too bright.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt lets his sword dangle, the tip scraping against the marble floor. “Why?” he asks.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“To punish you, obviously.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“But why draw this out? Why this pomp, this charade? Why not face me yourself like a real man?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not-Stregobor steps forward with his teeth bared. It’s clear to see now that Stregobor’s frame is merely a temporary host for the grieved mage. If Jaskier weren’t still in danger, Geralt might’ve smiled.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I am a real man!” he shouts. “I’m just using all the tools at my disposal. I’m not stupid.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No,” Geralt admits regretfully. “You’re not. I can only hope you’re smart enough to know that killing a man who’s done no harm to anyone will sit heavy on your conscience for as long as you live.” He feels his face settle into menacing creases. “Which, if you touch a hair on his head, won’t be long.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not-Stregobor saunters over to Geralt. It’s disturbing to watch the old man’s body move in such a way, like a posturing cock. He doesn’t think he manages to keep the constipated look off of his face.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Tell me, what will the infamous White Wolf do if I harm his barker?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll make you wish you’d never been born,” Geralt says, and deliberately raises his sword so the tip is pressed to not-Stregobor’s breast. The tip hovers over the exact spot where Geralt robbed the other mage of his life. They both know it; something deep in the mage’s eyes grows even brighter, and not in a good way.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“How do you know that stabbing me— the me you </span>
  </em>
  <span>think </span>
  <em>
    <span>you see— will do anything?” He smiles. “I know you think it will.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll just have to take the chance that you’re more than air.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The mage just laughs, a low chuckle that scrapes up Geralt’s spine. But there’s a bead of sweat clinging to his temple, and if he were truthfully arrogant then he’d have no need to sweat. Sure, there’s a fire going in the real world, but they’re hardly standing right next to it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a rustling breeze, cool and refreshing, that meanders through the courtyard and brushes Geralt’s hair away from his face with a hint of chamomile.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Where is Jaskier, right now? How much trouble is he in? Does the mage still have a dagger to his throat, or is he dead already? The well-loved scent painfully renews Geralt’s drive to escape the mage’s curse and kill them.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He lowers the sword slowly, watches the mage smirk as if in victory. When he’s not expecting it, Geralt bares his teeth and drives the sword through the mage’s stomach, watches—</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>—the mage’s cornflower-blue eyes fly wide with shock and pain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wait. No. That’s not right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Against all Witcher biology, against mutagens and decades of training, Geralt is paralyzed by fear as goosebumps ripples across his entire body. There’s pain worse than any post-mutagen transformation draping itself around his stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Geralt whispers. He can feel the blood drain from his face, and he’s sure his eyes are as wide as the ones he’s looking into. His ears register the sound of rapid footsteps as the mage runs away. Geralt doesn’t bother going after him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier opens his mouth to talk, but coughs instead. As if in slow motion, Geralt watches strings of blood drip from Jaskier’s mouth. It’s like the djinn again but much, much worse because there’s no one nearby to help and this time it’s really, truly Geralt’s fault.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if the sight is a swift kick in the ass, Geralt releases his sword like it’s burned him and steps backward. But the mage is gone, and with no one to support him Jaskier collapses to his knees. A shaking, fine-fingered hand comes up to gingerly prod and the spot where steel drives into flesh. They come away red.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geralt?” he whispers. His voice has gone thick with the blood coating his throat, continuing to drip from his lips onto his doublet. It’s a deep blue, similar in shade to the one Jaskier wore upon their first meeting so many years ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” Geralt croaks. His legs give out beneath him and he hits the ground hard. His head feels too light, or perhaps too heavy. His ears are ringing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier breathes. Slowly, haltingly, he lowers himself onto the ground. Geralt follows him down, helpless. The potions he has will kill a human, and he has no way of contacting Yennefer, and even if he leaves the sword in Jaskier will be dead by the time they reach town. “That stings.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jaskier.” It’s a sob.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Jaskier sighs. He reaches out and places his hand on the side of Geralt’s face in what’s supposed to be a comforting gesture. His hand is too warm and sticky. A dark patch— not red on the dark blue of his doublet, just dark— is creeping outwards, downwards, pulled by gravity to darken the grass too. “None of that, now. It’s alright.” He’s fighting to breathe, pausing too frequently to pull in long, deliberate breaths. His face twitches when the muscles in his stomach do, tightening around the sword embedded in them. “Geralt, look me in the eyes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt makes a sound like a wounded dog. He can’t possibly take his eyes from the place where his sword— </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>sword, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, there can’t be a worse sight in all the Continent— disappears into Jaskier’s stomach, where the dark stain is spreading from, where Geralt’s nightmares will take place for the rest of his miserable life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dearest, please,” Jaskier pleads. He uses his bloody hand to jostle Geralt’s face until he drags his gaze from Jaskier’s stomach to his shiny, too-blue eyes. He offers a shaking, bloody smile, like he’s proud of Geralt for such a minor action. “Excellent, love, that’s it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Geralt manages to say. Witchers don’t cry, can’t cry, but there’s something hot and stinging that blurs his vision. Like the words are a trigger, his tongue takes on a life of its own. “I’m sorry, Jaskier, I’m sorry, I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shhh, shhh, it’s quite alright dear.” Blood trails from his mouth, runs down the side of his face to the wet grass below. His teeth have gone red, and the grooves between them have turned a sickening scarlet. He doesn’t seem to know, or if he knows he doesn’t care. “Come on, hey, don’t cry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He removes his hand from Geralt’s face, uses his extended thumb to wipe Geralt’s cheek with a tender motion. The skin under it feels wet, like he’s smeared more blood with the motion. When Jaskier sets his hand down on the cold grass between them, Geralt reaches up to grab it and clutch it tightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Witchers can’t cry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier smiles again. There are deep creases around his eyes, and Geralt thinks absently of a line from one of Jaskier’s newest songs. Something about crows, if he remembers right, but it doesn't much matter right now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mine can,” Jaskier whispers, baring his bloody teeth in a bittersweet smile. “Mine has always been special.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t die,” Geralt begs. His entire body is trembling finely. He knows Jaskier might write a line of poetry about it if he had his notebook.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What a night for it, though.” Jaskier says with a trace of his usual humor. Pale blue eyes flit about the clearing. “What a location.” They settle back on Geralt, so pale and scared and loving. It’s a long moment before he speaks again, his voice barely audible even with Geralt’s enhanced hearing. “What a person to do it beside.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t leave me,” Geralt sobs. Has he ever cried like this before? Even when his mother left him, he wasn’t so distraught. “I need you. I love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you too,” Jaskier tells him. His blinks are growing longer, the darkness on his front and below him bigger. “But I… I must admit to a bit of a scheme.” He laughs, no more than an exhalation. “I knew this was going to happen sooner or later. My unfortunate departure.” Geralt watches his eyes slide shut and stay closed, feels his own heartbeats stutter with terror, but Jaskier keeps talking. “So I set my heart loose upon the world in the form of music. I won’t really be gone. I’ll just be confined to the mouths of others.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not good enough!” The words tear themselves from his throat, harsher than he’s spoken to Jaskier in years.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It has to be.” Jaskier doesn’t flinch, but his eyes open again and he offers an upturning of his trembling lips. His hand twitches in Geralt’s. It’s probably supposed to be a comforting squeeze. “Geralt, please don’t blame yourself for this. I’m begging you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t beg.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I don’t.” Jaskier’s eyes are really on Geralt now, boring into his very soul. “My love, I don’t blame you. I don’t, truly. This is merely an accident, the trick of a right bastard.” The firelight catches and reflects in a tear that makes its way from the corner of Jaskier’s eye to sit on the ledge of his nose. “I know you, Geralt. Please. This would’ve happened eventually anyways.” He pulls in a slow, rattling breath and smiles again. More tears make their way from his eyes, moving at a hesitant pace. “At least you’re here with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something deep within Geralt is screaming for him to curl close to Jaskier, to surround him, like a simple body could keep away Death itself. But there’s a sword in the way, and Geralt is finding it impossible to loosen his grip on Jaskier’s hand. He brings it to his mouth and kisses it instead, feels foreign wetness transfer to it from his own cheeks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I am,” he croaks. His throat aches like he’s swallowed the entire glass with a potion and it’s gotten stuck there, occupying more space than exists. “Fuck, of course I am. I love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier’s face is too pale. Geralt watches his eyes shut again. There’s a smile on his face, closed-lipped and perfectly pleased. His breaths grow shallower and further apart. Geralt’s own lungs seize and shudder when he tries to use them, like a protest. The cold dampness of the earth creeps under his armor, but it can’t hold a candle to the sensation that’s suffocating his very bones.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you too,” Jaskier breathes after a while, like he’s almost forgotten they’re having a conversation. “I love you so much, dearest. Don’t ever forget that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt opens his mouth but can’t speak past the bottle, so he just presses his lips to Jaskier’s hand and lets himself cry for the first time in almost a century. Under the sound of the drizzling rain, Geralt listens to Jaskier’s breathing and pulse grow ever slower. He doesn’t dare remove his gaze from Jaskier’s face, bloody and growing paler.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he dies, Geralt can hear it. That doesn’t mean he believes it. For minutes Geralt lays there, waiting for another breath or heartbeat with all the foolish hope of a particularly naive child. It has to come, he tells himself. It has to come because Jaskier can’t be dead yet. He can’t be dead at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so Geralt returns to Roach alone to grab something— anything— good for digging.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so Geralt tells Ciri, “You’ve learned all I can teach you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so Geralt says to Yennefer, “You always wanted a daughter, didn’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so Geralt takes the elven lute out past Posada to return it to its original owners.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen that winter and almost kills Lambert when he asks where “that bard of yours has disappeared to this year, Geralt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so Geralt never returns to the edge of the world or a certain wood in Temeria, only ever hoping that the king of the elves kept his promise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so a year and twenty-three days after Jaskier is buried with a sword, two patches of soil, separated by hundreds of miles, teem with immortal buttercups.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm not going to lie, I feel a little bad for writing this. Like, 1.5k words of dying is a little much, even for me. Anyways, feel free to shout at me in the comments about killing everyone's favorite feral bastard.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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